Marcus Reed stepped out of the small stone gatehouse in a dark blue estate jacket and stood at rigid attention with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Good afternoon, Mrs.

Varela,” Marcus said, his voice crisp and even.

“The main house and grounds are fully prepared.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a heavy ring of iron master keys.

“We finished the slate roof repairs on the villa last Tuesday,” Marcus said, setting the keys in my open palm.

“The security systems are on, and no unauthorized vehicles will get past this line.”

I held the cold iron keys in my fingers, feeling their weight.